


But Like A Refugee

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Convent Husbands, Families of Choice, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-17 20:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1401607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Does it hurt?" Fauchelevent asked.</p><p>"Yes," Valjean said.</p><p>"That's how it is," Fauchelevent muttered. "It has to hurt before it gets better."</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Like A Refugee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [knowyourwayinthedark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowyourwayinthedark/gifts).



> Hope you like it! Thanks so much to Stripy for beta-reading.

_Every heart, every heart / to love will come / but like a refugee._  
\-- Leonard Cohen, "Anthem"

 

He remained on his knees as the shadows deepened, easing the weeds out of the moist soil. The day had been a grey one and now it was raining, soft taps against his face and hands. Occasionally a drop would slide down his neck; he would shake himself immediately and think no more of it. The heap of uprooted plants next to him was growing, a testimony of the day's work.

But at last it got too dark for him to go on without uprooting the wrong ones; he might accidentally rid the garden of something innocent. Moreover, he would be late for supper and his friend would scold him. Jean Valjean heaved a sigh and, with some reluctance, got to his feet.

As he did so, a searing pain shot through his bad leg. He stumbled, steadying himself to the apple tree nearby. For long seconds he stayed like that, the pain returning to its usual dull ache like a tide ebbing.

Under his hand, the bark was rough, wet. He stood there, still, his mind following the memories brought by the touch -- an old apple tree in Faverolles, emerging from the mist, chilly autumn mornings when he was sent to pick the windfall by a mother whose features he could no longer recall. But it must have been his mother, not his sister: he had been so young. Some time before his mother's death, the apple tree had been cut down, being deemed more useful as firewood.

How very strange, that he should remember the tree and not her face.

A wind rustled the leaves, sending a spray of wetness down his neck. He sighed and wiped at his face. There was no use in dreaming of times gone past.

 

*

 

"There you are," said Fauchelevent, placing the pot of soup on the table next to their pewter bowls before coming towards him. His smile was open and honest, his eyes warm in the dim light of the hut. "I was beginning to wonder if you had somehow got lost; why, if Heaven had reclaimed you -- let me help you with that."

His hands, sure and steady, were already easing Valjean's coat off his shoulders, and Valjean bent his head, accepting the favour with newly-learned grace. It was becoming easier now, after all these months, to let his friend touch him with such little acts of kindness, despite the guilt of knowing that Father Fauchelevent was taking a convict for a saint and treating him with unfeigned affection, as if they were indeed related by blood.

The first time Fauchelevent had called him brother without any nuns in earshot, it seemed to have been a slip of the tongue. Fauchelevent's stream of friendly conversation had stopped abruptly and he had flushed before timidly asking Father Madeleine's forgiveness. The charade had somehow become almost real to him, he explained; it was so easy to let himself get carried away -- not that he would in any way presume...

And Valjean, listening to his unhappy fluster, had realised in a clear flash of insight how easily the new trust building between them could be damaged, if he now allowed Fauchelevent to retreat in shame, if he allowed Fauchelevent to think he was in any way offended.

"I do not mind," he had said, smiling tentatively, and Fauchelevent had looked up, startled, before an answering smile slowly began to spread across his features, radiant with relief.

Indeed, Valjean did not mind. The name of Madeleine had been but a shield, a lie currently exposed to all the world except this sacred place behind the walls. Cosette called him father, and their lack of common blood made it no less the truth. Fauchelevent called him brother, and although he could not know that Valjean remembered another man who had done the same -- who had opened his home and sheltered him against the world -- he seemed to feel, as Valjean did, that it was not at all a lie.

 

*

 

He washed his hands, grateful despite himself for the warmth in the room and the prospect of food. When he straightened and turned, his back gave a twinge, as if to remind him that he had no right to take such pleasures for granted. The sting of pain was sharp, making his bad leg twitch in turn, and he could not help but grimace.

Fauchelevent gave him a quick look, suggesting he had noticed. He opened his mouth for a moment, eyes seeking Valjean's, and then frowned. "Come eat," he finally said, turning to fill their bowls.

Throughout the meal, Fauchelevent talked freely and genially as usual, expecting nothing more than Valjean's occasional nod or smile. There was, however, a tinge of nervousness to the tilt of his head, a wariness to his sideway glances. There was an uneasy feel to the air, and Valjean could not help but wonder if his brief moment of weakness had disturbed Fauchelevent -- Fauchelevent, who was older than him, who had a bad leg of his own, who should not have to worry about anyone but himself, and least of all him, Jean Valjean.

Eating his soup without hesitation seemed the best way to make his friend believe everything was all right. Indeed he did feel better the emptier his bowl got, and when Fauchelevent refilled it without asking, he did not protest. The ache in his joints was still there, however, and when he rose from the table to clear away his bowl, he realised too late that the movement was too swift: his bad leg gave a cry of protest.

He wobbled; the bowl fell from his hand and clattered across the floor. He grasped for the table, gritting his teeth against the pain.

And then Fauchelevent was there, gripping his arm to steady him. "Lean on me. There."

He obeyed, breathing heavily, closing his eyes against Fauchelevent's worried look. "It's nothing," he muttered.

"It's not nothing," Fauchelevent said, his voice low in Valjean's ear. "You stayed out for too long. It's autumn now, and tonight was cold. I should have come out to fetch you long ago, I knew it, I am a fool... Come, you need to rest."

He wanted to protest: it _was_ a small thing. But something, perhaps the misplaced guilt in Fauchelevent's voice, stopped him. So again he obeyed, letting himself be steered to the narrow couch in front of the fire, letting Fauchelevent ease him down, allowing his body to relax with a weary sigh.

But when Fauchelevent knelt down in front of him and started to unlace his boots, he froze.

Fauchelevent seemed to feel it, for he stilled for a second, before continuing to pull the first boot off, careful so as not to hurt the bad leg. Then, without asking for permission, he unlaced and eased off the other. Finally, he looked up, meeting Valjean's eyes. He was still on his knees.

Valjean swallowed.

"You shouldn't be doing that," he said quietly. There were a host of reasons as to why, and he settled for the simplest one. "You have a bad leg of your own --"

"-- and so it wouldn't do me any good if you fell ill," Fauchelevent interrupted. "And I have spent most of the day indoors, and my leg doesn't hurt tonight, not one bit. Unlike yours, I daresay."

"It's nothing," he said again, though he knew Fauchelevent would not believe him. "You shouldn't kneel."

"Then I won't," said Fauchelevent. He supported himself on the armrest and slowly got to his feet, before sitting down next to Valjean on the couch. "Lie down."

Valjean's face heated, unease coiling and tightening within him. "What?"

"Lie down." For a second, but only for a second, Fauchelevent hesitated, his hand on Valjean's knee. "Don't argue with me."

The worry was plain on his face now, and so Valjean did as he was asked, stiffly, slowly. His leg was still aching, as if to mock him. Moments later, he was stretched out on his back, Fauchelevent sitting on the edge of the sofa next to him, and every fibre in Valjean's body was telling him to flee.

"It really isn't necessary," he muttered, squirming. In Toulon, the ache of his leg had been constant, like a part of his body, a dull tone of red in a grey world. In Montreuil, where he'd had a heated house and a solid fire, the pain had faded though the limp remained. He had been grateful, at first. Then he had ceased to notice, getting used to the lack of pain. These days, it served as a reminder of what he had escaped through Providence alone.

"You would ruin yourself," Fauchelevent said, "if I was not here to prevent you. Lie still."

Without saying more, he slid a hand down Valjean's leg, a firm warm touch through the fabric. The hand came to rest on his ankle for a moment, squeezed gently, before moving upwards again, slow and sure.

Valjean shivered. "You shouldn't," he muttered, even as he let his head fall back and closed his eyes.

Images fluttered past his closed lids: of walking through silent fields in December, Cosette resting her head on his shoulder, of sitting by a hospital bed in Montreuil, feeling the cold of Fantine's hand. Giving comfort, such as it was -- this he had tried, these last few years. To receive comfort from Fauchelevent, who had done so much for him already, was a new thing, a strange thing, a dangerous thing.

"Now don't you start again," said Fauchelevent. His voice was brisk, though Valjean thought there was a strain to it. "What use would it be if you couldn't get out of bed tomorrow?" He hesitated again, then pushed Valjean's trouser leg upwards, folding it so it wouldn't slip down. "Let me."

Valjean tensed. He was still wearing stockings, and the thin layer of wool was all that covered the old scars on his ankle. Ultimately, it would be as useless a shield as the name of Madeleine had been -- if he did not put a stop to this right now, if he kept lying here letting himself be touched, if he allowed Fauchelevent to continue stroking his leg.

His body was still screaming for him to flee, and yet he could not move. He lay there, as if hypnotised, as his friend's calloused fingers ran up his calf.

And then it was too late: with only a moment's hesitation, Fauchelevent's fingers slipped under the hem, before pulling the stocking down and off, and then there was nothing but air.

Valjean squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the axe to fall. He knew well enough what the marks on his ankle looked like, how they must seem to an innocent eye. Now, he thought, now, now --

Fauchelevent's hand came to rest on his leg, just above his ankle.

Nothing else happened. There was no outcry, no shudder, no sky falling down; there was nothing except the simple and undeniable fact of skin against skin.

Still he lay there, unmoving, only waiting for the moment when that warm hand would jerk away in belated realisation and leave him there, exposed. Then he felt Fauchelevent tentatively running two fingers over the old scars, and at this he opened his eyes.

Fauchelevent was watching him. Their gazes met and held as the fingers continued their exploration. "Those are scars," Fauchelevent said.

Valjean nodded.

"I can't imagine," Fauchelevent muttered, "how it must have hurt." Valjean felt another soft brush against his ankle; it suddenly occurred to him it was a caress. "No wonder you are in pain."

His breath escaped him in a shudder as Fauchelevent slid his hand from the scars and up the line of Valjean's calf, and back down, assuredly, reassuringly. It felt unreal, misty, like his memories from earlier; it was too wonderful to last and so it ought to stop.

"You are not asking," he ground out, "how I got those."

"No," said Fauchelevent. "I am not."

He carefully shifted on the sofa so that he could move Valjean's legs gently to his lap, only sparing him one stern glance when Valjean instinctively stiffened. "No more fuss," he said -- and then, a bit softer, "Let me do this for you, brother."

Without another word, he bent over Valjean's bad leg, which was closest to him. As his gardener's hands started to work the roughened flesh of the scars, there was no revulsion in his eyes, only care, as if he were touching something invaluable, something sacred. As if Madeleine's secret did not lie bared to him, open to his very hands.

It was unreal, and yet -- Fauchelevent had not asked. The shield was down, the secret out, the proof on his skin as clear as any writing on yellow paper, and Fauchelevent had not asked.

Valjean's heart was still beating heavily in his chest. For the first time he glimpsed, beyond the stolen peace of the convent, a greater peace he had not yet dreamed of. The prospect terrified him: his longing was too great.

He exhaled. Fauchelevent glanced at him briefly, and Valjean closed his eyes again; it seemed the safest option. "Does it hurt?" Fauchelevent asked.

"Yes," Valjean said.

"That's how it is," Fauchelevent muttered. "It has to hurt before it gets better."

And it _did_ hurt -- though less from the ache, which was now grudgingly retreating under Fauchelevent's hands, than from the swelling in his chest. Throughout his body emotion expanded, making his eyes sting under his lids, spreading warm and alien to his belly. "Thank you," he whispered, perhaps not loud enough for Fauchelevent to hear, but it was all his voice would permit.

Some moments passed in silence. Valjean kept his eyes closed. Fauchelevent's reaction, or rather the lack of it, had filled him with wonder; his body was still tingling with unfamiliar sensations, running through his limbs and converging in the point where Fauchelevent was kneading his leg. He wanted to squirm again, he wanted to moan. He wanted to arch into Fauchelevent's hands and not have to think.

Was it normal, he wondered, to feel this restless under the affectionate touch of a friend? Was it normal -- he swallowed -- that he should flush at the realisation that soon, if they were not stopped, Fauchelevent's hands would be on his thigh?

His head went faint as the warmth in his belly turned to heat, flowing downwards in an overwhelming rush. He could not remember the last time his body had stirred with desire; it must have been decades ago. The feeling was as strange and unfamiliar as the almost-forgotten memory of his mother -- it, too, belonged to another time and another man.

In prison he had turned his back to the sounds in the darkness, the groans and the grunts: first, as a young man, in apathy and indifference; then, last time, in the tired realisation that nothing ever changed. During all those years, it had never moved him much one way or another. And yet that time must have left its mark on him somehow, one that soon would be as visible to Fauchelevent as the marred flesh of his ankle -- and surely this sign of his wretchedness would repulse his friend as the other one had not.

He lay there, mortified and despairing, feeling himself grow harder with each press of Fauchelevent's fingers to his leg. Soon the bulge in his trousers would become obvious. Perhaps it already was.

The room was too hot; the pounding of his heart made it difficult to swallow; he wanted to be far away. And yet he still wanted, more than anything, for Fauchelevent to keep touching him.

Then he realised that the hands on his leg had stilled. Valjean took a deep breath, summoned his courage, and opened his eyes.

Fauchelevent was staring at him. Neither said anything for a moment. There was a flush on Fauchelevent's cheeks, and when he finally broke the stare it was to glance down into his own lap. Valjean followed his gaze, and blinked.

"You too," Fauchelevent whispered. His eyes were shining, as if he were on the verge of tears. "I had not dreamed..."

Valjean's throat felt dry. He licked his lips and noticed, half bemusedly, the quick glance Fauchelevent shot towards his mouth. "I have never," he said helplessly. "I don't know how --"

"Oh, brother." Fauchelevent was shaking his head and smiling, and yes, there were indeed tears in his eyes. "Do you think I know anything you don't? No, no, stay there. Lie still."

He eased himself out from under Valjean's legs and again knelt on the sofa next to him. He put his hands on either side of Valjean's face and tilted their foreheads together. His breath was hot and rapid, and very close.

"You shouldn't be on your knees," Valjean said, running a fingertip down his temple.

Fauchelevent laughed and, for the first time, kissed the corner of his mouth. The touch was gone as soon as it had come, but the impact remained. "Come to the floor, then."

There was a rug in front of the fireplace, one of the few things Fauchelevent had brought with him from Montreuil. It was not particularly thick or luxurious, and surely the bed in the corner would have provided a more comfortable place of rest, but right now the bed seemed so very far away, and the rug so very welcoming.

Valjean let himself slide to the floor, aware of how supple he felt compared to earlier. The ache was gone; all that remained in his body was an impatient, burning longing. "Come," he whispered, reaching out for Fauchelevent and pulling him close.

Kissing and being kissed -- what a strange sensation it was, how very lovely, how very unlike anything he could remember having done before. Fauchelevent's mouth was warm under his own, his lips were a little dry, and the smile on them was unmistakeable.

Valjean lay back, and Fauchelevent followed, coming to lie halfway on top of him and pressing kisses to his chin, his neck, his collarbone. With his right hand he started opening Valjean's trousers, but then he paused, suddenly shy. "May I?"

Valjean nodded, and Fauchelevent smiled again, bright happiness in the reflection of the flames. His free hand sought and found Valjean's; their fingers twined. Valjean closed his eyes as Fauchelevent caressed him, hand as careful and determined as it had been when touching his leg earlier. "Does this feel good?" Fauchelevent murmured.

He could not have lied if he had wished to. "It does."

Fauchelevent kissed his neck again. Then, before Valjean could ask what he was doing, he moved downwards, though without letting go of Valjean's hand. And then --

The touch of lips to his swollen flesh was unbearably good, too good, so good that Valjean could not help but tremble. To think that Fauchelevent would do this for him, after everything that now lay in the open between them -- he could not fathom it, and he did not want to; he did not want to think anymore, only to feel, to lie still and give himself over. "Oh, God," he gasped as Fauchelevent opened his mouth and took him fully in. "Oh, God."

Fauchelevent squeezed his fingers and drew back a little. "Let me," he said, as he had earlier. His voice was somewhat rough, his breath coming in quick rasps. "You have no idea how much I've wanted this, how often I've thought about it..."

He lowered his head again, and then there was nothing more to say or do; there was nothing more to contemplate or fear. There was only the caresses of his lips and tongue, the heat and hotness of his mouth, and Valjean sank into the pleasure, let himself go, clung to Fauchelevent's hand as he twisted and bucked, and, finally, came with a half-choked cry.

Throughout it, Fauchelevent had not budged. When at last he raised his head and wiped at his mouth, it was with a nervous smile and a flush on his face. "You liked that?" he asked.

Valjean took a deep breath. He was overcome -- with fondness for the man so close to him, with gratitude, with the prospect of a peace which for the first time seemed within reach. Speech seemed difficult at that moment, if not impossible.

He pressed Fauchelevent's hand. "I did," he said. "Very much." All words were inadequate. His limbs felt heavy and soft, but he had not forgotten his friend's state. "Would you like me to --?"

"There's no hurry," Fauchelevent said, moving up to lie beside him. Valjean leaned in to kiss his lips. He tasted himself there, and was surprised by the lack of unpleasantness. He ran his hand tentatively down Fauchelevent's chest, stroking the bulge through his trousers. Fauchelevent gave a moan; his eyelids quivered.

"There's no hurry," he said again, a bit breathlessly. "You shouldn't --"

"Let me," Valjean interrupted him. "Brother." He kissed Fauchelevent again, catching his rueful laughter with his mouth. He felt light-hearted and humble, and yet stronger than ever before, safer than he had ever been even in the faraway days of his childhood. "Let me," he murmured, fumbling to open Fauchelevent's trousers. 

Before he could get that far, Fauchelevent gave a violent shudder; Valjean felt sudden wetness spread through the fabric under his hand. He looked up to meet Fauchelevent's eyes, and was relieved to see the laughter in them.

"I was too fast for you," Fauchelevent said, "after all." He pulled Valjean close for another kiss. "I'm so very glad," he muttered against his mouth. "You cannot possibly know how much."

 

*

 

Later, they lay in bed together, the natural result of a silent agreement. Fauchelevent's arm was curled around Valjean's chest, and in the moonlight it seemed his dreams were happy, for he was smiling.

Valjean did not sleep for a long time, though his body was sated and relaxed in a way that was wholly unfamiliar to him. He thought of the night's events, asking himself what they would look like in the daylight, whether they would be more comprehensible then. He moved his bad leg tentatively, and wondered when the ache would return. He looked at Fauchelevent's sleeping face and marvelled.

The peace he had glimpsed was still almost unfathomable to him; when he tried looking forward, to grasp what might come, it threatened to overwhelm him. He looked backwards, instead: in his mind he recalled, over and over, Fauchelevent's warm hand on his ankle, the honesty in his eyes and the reassurance of his kisses.

Then, eventually, he stretched and gave a sigh. He closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around his friend in turn, and let himself fall asleep, not afraid of dreaming.


End file.
